


To Look on Tempests

by TheIntelligentHufflepuff



Series: And By Opposing End Them [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), Depressed Steve Rogers, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Kissing, Lovey-Dovey, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Personal Growth, Therapy, to be precise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 20:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10579149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheIntelligentHufflepuff/pseuds/TheIntelligentHufflepuff
Summary: Steve doesn’t quite manage to conceal the widening of his eyes, or the soft exhale of relief that escapes his opened jaw, but Dianne doesn’t react except to sit silently and let him work through his revelations





	

**Author's Note:**

> I took the title from Sonnet 116 this time, because it's more hopeful. Also a lower rating because I don't explicitly mention any self destructive tendencies, just depression in general because I saved some of the angstier parts for future instalments. There is one mention of an erection- it's not particularly explicit and it doesn't actually happen but if you want to avoid it, it's in the biggest paragraph in the third section of the story.

The door to the therapist’s office is bamboo; a lovely honey colour, undulating slightly like a mermaid’s hair flowing in the waves, flecked with darker spots and worn down ever so slightly in the region where many hands have pressed to open it. Many sweaty hands, if Steve’s are anything to go by. He flexes his fingers, rolls his shoulders, and breathes in. He can do this. Swiftly, so he can’t back out, Steve knocks on the soft wood and enters. 

The room inside is small, but the golden light streaming in through gossamer curtains and reflecting off the pastel yellow painted walls, dotted with tiny cacti and other potted plants, prevent it from seeming claustrophobic. As for furniture, two low slung wicker chairs half buried in cushions and embroidered fabrics take centre stage, while a small coffee table is set unobtrusively to the side. Stacked precariously against the back wall are about a hundred books and a few pieces of wood that might once have been a bookcase. In front of them stands a tall, plump woman with an impressive sabled afro and clothing that got caught between punk and hippie. 

Steve clears his throat politely. 

The woman pivots smoothly, smiling as she sees him hovering in the doorway “Captain Rogers, I presume?” she teases “Come in, I’m Dianne.” 

Steve does so, taking the seat Dianne gestures to with a polite nod. He’d expected there to be more scrutiny involved, but instead Dianne is acting as if he’s an old colleague who’s arrived to discuss a paper: familiar, but not especially emotional. Although, as Dianne settles herself and her tablet on the seat opposite Steve, he does notice a certain lively awareness in her gaze. 

“Now,” she smiles “We’ll spend most of our session talking about you, so it’s only fair that I do a little talking too to begin with. I’m one of six clinical psychologists and therapists attached to the Dora Milaje and wider security team, and I specialise in PTSD counselling but am also qualified to deal with a variety of other related issues such as depression and anxiety. I studied in Wakanda primarily, but have also spent years abroad in the Netherlands and USA. I enjoy reading murder mysteries, have two cats, and my guilty pleasure is croquet. Would you like a drink? Water, that is. We’ll save the stronger stuff for after the session.” 

Steve huffs in faint amusement at the ending joke and agrees. As well as pouring them both a glass of cool water- with a lemon slice, something that Steve still considers excessively luxurious- Dianne lights a large candle that almost immediately fills the room with the scents of honeysuckle and gardenia. It’s all perfectly pleasant, so it’s a shame when Dianne turns back to Steve and asks “What are you expecting therapy to be?” 

He shifts uncomfortably, and shrugs. Personally, he thinks that Dianne really doesn’t want to know what he associates with the word ‘therapy’. 

“I won’t be offended.” she urges him lightly “And it really is very useful for us to start on the same page.” 

“Fine.” Steve exhales, though it’s not so much for her benefit as it is a product of the imploring look Bucky had given him before Steve left for the therapist’s that morning “I’m not expecting there to be any, because neither Sam nor Bucky would send me here if there were, but I know electroshock exists.” Dianne’s lips purse “And then there’s Freud so I’m expecting you to tell me how my depression is my own fault for not developing right as a child.” 

Dianne’s fingers flit over her tablet, presumably taking a note of Steve’s response. She hums contemplatively, meets Steve’s eyes, and answers “No to the electroshock. It’s actually called electroconvulsive therapy, and although it is still in use today,” Steve startles “the process has become a lot more refined and much less physically dangerous. It’s only used as a near-last resort in a particular subset of patients, so I doubt it would be applicable to you, Steve.” 

“How can it still be around?” Steve blurts. 

Dianne shrugs placidly “Sometimes it works. We don’t know how, but sometimes it does. Knowing that, you can’t stop people from ever using it.” 

“But still,” Steve insists “It’s a little…” 

 

“HYDRA?” Dianne suggests sympathetically “Yes. That’s another reason we won’t be using it. Speaking of things we won’t be using, I’m not a fan of the psychosexual or wider psychoanalytical approach. Although it’s all founded on semi-logical principles, or at least what seemed like logic at the time, it is in my professional experience insufficient to deal with the issues associated with PTSD and trauma in general. So unless you want any marriage counselling, we’ll be using the cognitive behavioural approach.” 

 

“Sounds scientific.” Steve comments, voice tight. He can’t quite work out if ‘scientific’ is a good thing or not. 

“Oh, it is.” Dianne confirms brightly “More so than the psychoanalytical approach. It’s based on the assumption that the brain is like a computer: input, processing, output. The input is what you encounter every day, the output is your thoughts and feelings. Simply put, in this model a mental illness alters the processing stage so that it produces negative thoughts and behaviours as the output rather than the neutral or positive ones the same input would produce in someone without a mental illness. Do you follow?” 

“I think so?” 

“To clarify, then: the mental illness is a metaphorical bug in the computer programming of your brain which causes it to produce a different result to what was intended. The aim of cognitive behavioural therapy is to guide you to identify the bug and re-code it so that it produces the correct results. For example, you’re walking down the street and you see your friend Natasha. You say hello, but Natasha walks straight past. Why?” 

As she asks the question, Dianne points a pen at Steve, and he is suddenly and vividly transported to his ninth grade maths class “Um.” he supplies “She’s annoyed at me?” 

“Okay. You think that Natasha’s annoyed at you, because your mind is predisposed to putting yourself at fault for negative experiences,” Steve blinks “which is a very common symptom by the way. Because you think that Natasha’s annoyed at you, you then proceed to avoid her. While you’re thinking that your friendship with Natasha is irretrievable, she’s laughing about her habit of getting too absorbed in her music while she’s walking and wondering why you’re so busy this week. And I,” Dianne laughs “as your cognitive therapist am teaching you how to, when the next similar incident occurs, process it in a healthier way. For example, instead of immediately concluding that Natasha is annoyed with you, you would consider how she may not have noticed you, or how she may have been upset, or in too much of a hurry to stop and say hello, and as a result you wouldn’t avoid her and start thinking that the friendship is over.” 

Steve, falling back on the oldest trick in the socially awkward book, picks up his glass and takes a sip of water. Then another, because the first one didn’t give him nearly enough time to think. 

Frankly, what Dianne just described was the exact opposite of what Steve was expecting- he’d prepared himself for what was tantamount to an interrogation, for an unrelenting pressure that didn’t cease until it had forced him into shape, for scorn or disgust, for anything other than the co-operation Dianne seemed to be proposing. A co-operation that demanded equal action from him to that taken by Dianne. Here, Steve stumbles. But only briefly. 

He wouldn’t be standing here today if he wasn’t made of five parts grit to four parts stubbornness.

“If you’re ready?” Dianne asks shrewdly. 

Steve nods. 

“Then we’ll start. First of all, let’s tackle the depression. When do you think your first symptoms manifested?” 

Something about the clinical phrasing of the question strikes Steve, sparking through his mind to light upon a memory masked by time: himself, not yet seven, legs dangling over the edge of a kitchen chair he really should fit better as a doctor listens to his heart with a stethoscope, the cool press of it against his chest a welcome distraction to the sickness endemic in such a fragile body. Although it’s entirely irrelevant to the question, the image ignites a minor epiphany in Steve. It’s as if a cloud he hadn’t noticed before has shifted, shedding an entirely different light on a thousand moments which have lingered in his consciousness for decades, waiting for the opportune moment to reveal their true effects. Steve doesn’t quite manage to conceal the widening of his eyes, or the soft exhale of relief that escapes his opened jaw, but Dianne doesn’t react except to sit silently and let him work through his revelations. Some of which seem so obvious now that Steve can hardly believe he didn’t realise they were connected to his mental health sooner, although a second later he also realises the true, continent-spanning breadth of his denial. 

“God, I must have annoyed my friends.” Steve thinks. Or says, given that Dianne- who Steve is ninety percent certain cannot read minds- berates him lightly for it. 

“I know, though. When the symptoms first started. Or at least, I think I do.” Steve insists. It’s invigorating- rejuvenating, even- to have a solid mental plan. Until Dianne reminds Steve that therapy involves her knowing it too, and a vice clamps down on Steve’s windpipe quicker than a bullet. 

Dianne leans back in her chair, swirling her lemon slice around in her glass pensively. After regarding Steve for a few moments, she speaks “I know you can talk, and I know you can speak- practically everyone’s heard one or another of your speeches.” 

“Very different things.” Steve comments tightly. 

“That’s true. But if you can do one, you at least have some capability for the other. Don’t panic.” she adds firmly, as if she can see Steve’s heart rate creeping up like a kettle about to boil “Therapy’s not about making you panic- it’s about striking the right balance between pushing you far enough out of your comfort zone to progress, but not so far that it’ll just hurt you more. Trust me, I’m damn good at my job and I know how to make that happen.” She pauses for his agreement and, though the traumatised part of Steve’s brain wants nothing more than to run away and never look back, he gives it “Good. Now, what we’re going to do for you is this: today you’ll tell me one instance that you recognise as a depressive symptom. On Tuesday, you’ll tell me another two- and have the entirety of the next three days to rehearse them before you do it. If you ever feel like one instance is too big to handle, we’ll sort through it in chunks together. If we take enough small steps, we’ll have this under control before you know it. Okay?.” 

“Yes.” 

“Great.” Dianne glances at her watch “We have ten minutes left of this session, which is the perfect amount of time. Off you go.” 

Steve takes a steeling breath, diverts his gaze to the lively flickering of the candle flame, and begins. 

“The first time that I can really remember feeling...empty, was when I was fourteen. At the time I put it down to lingering illness, because I was just getting over a bout of....well, it doesn’t matter what it was. Point is, I was sat on this bed, weak as a kitten, staring out of the window. All I could see was a plain brick wall, and all I could hear was everyone around me living their lives- laughing and joking, scolding, pacing, that kind of thing- while I was stuck in this bubble. A vacuum, maybe, of me and my bedsheets and nothing else. Then it was like everything just drained out of me all of a sudden, like...like…” Steve chokes, feeling like his chest is cracking in two.

“Take your time.” 

“Like being submerged in cold water, except this time it wasn’t because I wanted to drown. It was because I was dragged in, but I was too numb to do anything about it and I think- I mean, I’m fairly sure I lost time then, because the next thing I knew I wasn’t the only person in the world; Bucky was there too which was strange because the last time I’d checked the clock, it said school didn’t finish for another two hours.” 

Steve rubs his hands together surreptitiously, trying to warm them from the memory of arctic ice and fevered limbs. He hadn’t been prepared for just how real recounting it would feel. As he glances back to Dianne, he sees her shift her gaze away from his clasped hands. Who needs spies when you have therapists for observation, he thinks grimly. 

“You mentioned losing time.” 

‘Oh God’, Steve thinks. 

“Yes.” 

“Does that happen to you often?” 

Steve shrugs apologetically; often is a subjective thing. The only definite is that it happens. 

Dianne hums, then glances at her watch again and stands “Well, that’s time up for today. See you on Tuesday.” 

“Thank you. Goodbye.” Steve replies automatically, somewhat startled by the abrupt change of tone. 

He’s halfway to the door when Dianne’s motivations for knocking him off course like that become clear, as she casually mentions “One last thing- do you believe that you’re a good person?” 

Steve stops dead. 

“Pardon?” 

“Do you believe that you’re a good person?” 

Steve licks his lips, hairs on the back of his neck prickling like they would if Dianne’s gaze was behind the scope of a sniper rifle “Do you want the honest answer, or the right one?” 

“The honest one, please, if you think there’s a difference.” 

“Then, no.” Steve replies curtly, stepping swiftly closer to the door. He’s got a hand on it about to push it open, nearly free, when he’s stopped by Dianne’s voice again. 

“I think that’s a lie. You are a good person.” 

Steve scoffs “Some people seem to think so, but they’re not the ones I’ve killed. They can’t see inside my head.” Then they’d know there isn’t a thing about Steve that is good (or ‘light’ or ‘amazing’ as Bucky likes to whisper) at all. 

“Maybe not, but I don’t think they need to see inside your head to make that judgement. Being good isn’t about what’s inside your head at all; it’s not innate, although it seems like it in some people. It’s a process of which the only step is making the decision that you know is the most moral, or at least the most beneficial to the most people, then making it again, and continuing to make it. Again, and again, and again. Even when the bad choice is easier, or the line between the two is blurred. You’ve been through wars, Steve, and through it all you’ve tried and tried again to do what’s right and human. That’s what makes you a good person. Think about that, alright? And next time you catch yourself thinking you’re a bad person I want you to dismiss it, or at least refute it- even if the only way to do that is thinking about how you stopped a situation from getting worse.” 

When it’s clear that Dianne’s finished, all Steve can do is mumble a ‘goodbye’ and flee. 

****

Steve emerges from the therapist’s looking pale and shaken, so much so that he doesn't notice Bucky leaning against the wall. As Steve hurries down the corridor in a distantly fretful kind of way, Bucky detaches himself from his post and jogs to catch up. 

“Steve.” 

He either doesn't hear or ignores him. Bucky clamps his lip between his teeth, unsettled. 

“Steve.” He repeats, this time accompanying it with a soft hand to his boyfriend’s shoulder. He whips around in shock; Bucky has to dart back to avoid being struck “Steve. It's me, darling. It's me.” 

Steve deflates, slumping against the corridor wall with a wince of guilt. Bucky is beginning to see why Natasha was so vehemently opposed to him meeting Steve straight from therapy, while at the same time he sees why Wanda and Sam supported it. 

“Buck.” Steve exhales in a voice that can only be described as devoid, running a hand down his face. 

Helpless to stop himself, Bucky pulls Steve into a tight hug, nestling Steve’s head against his neck. 

“I'm proud of you.” Bucky whispers into his hair “You did great.” 

Steve snorts half- heartedly “You have no idea how I did.” 

“‘Course I do.” Bucky smiles, heart aching “You wouldn't be so out of it if you didn't do great. Besides, you've never done a thing badly in your life.” 

This draws a more positive reaction from Steve, who genuinely laughs “That's a blatant lie and you know it.” 

Bucky shrugs “What can I say, I'm in love.” 

Steve pulls back, smiling dopily. His hands slip down to loop around Bucky’s waist “Me too. How about that.” 

Bucky smiles, probably glowing with loving contentment and not giving a shit about it. Smirking, Steve takes the cue to tilt Bucky’s head backwards with a finger crooked underneath his chin and kiss him. A triumphant feeling wells up in Bucky any time it happens, and this occasion is no different. What starts out as an affectionate peck soon intensifies, their lips and tongues beginning to move languidly against each other as both men press closer, bodies fused together. Forgetting where they are for a moment, Bucky shifts his attention to Steve’s jaw, mouthing down the smooth skin of his neck as Steve’s hands fist in Bucky’s hair, scrape down his back, curl around his thighs. Bucky’s thoughts begin to spark distractedly, the telltale quivering of a coming arousal heightening his receptiveness to touch and converting every rapidly heating point of contact between them to a centre of concentrated ecstasy. 

Then a door opens further down the corridor and a woman Bucky assumes must be Steve’s therapist yells at them- not unkindly- to go home. 

“Sorry, Dianne!” Steve practically squeaks, mortified. Bucky, who has never had any shame, howls in laughter. 

“Come on,” he gasps, tugging Steve along “Let’s go home.” 

****

Home leads to more kisses, which leads to making out on the sofa like the protagonists of a teen movie until Steve- exhausted from the emotional exertion of therapy- curls up for a quick pre-dinner time nap. Bucky brushes Steve’s fringe away from his eyes fondly, then heads off to find Sam for a debrief. Eventually, Bucky locates him lounging in a swimming pool, wearing nothing but a pair of swimming trunks and some stylish sunglasses. It’s a decent look, Bucky privately admits.

“Hey man, how’s it going?” Sam greets him as he nears, not overly concerned either by the fact that he’s shirtless or over what Bucky might have to say. 

“You know what, I think he’s doing okay.” Bucky reports happily, settling himself down on the edge of the pool. He takes off his sandals and dips his toes into the water, which is refreshingly cool. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. He looked kinda crap coming out of it, but I cheered him up and although we haven’t actually talked about how it went, he seems like a load’s been taken off his shoulders.” 

“At least temporarily.” Sam amends, cautious about making sweeping statements in a way that Bucky has realised is characteristic.

“At least. But it’s something. I really think he’s actual engaged with it.” 

Sam nods, satisfied, and slowly rotates himself in the water until he’s half floating directly in front of Bucky. With a sly smirk, he asks “So. You cheered him up?” 

Bucky blinks, jaw dropping in only half-exaggerated astonishment “Samuel Wilson, you terror!” 

“Oh I don’t know,” Sam parries, drawing out his words to a taunt “I can think of one other person here who could fit that description. In the bedroom, that is.” 

That’s it. Sam only has a second to realise his mistake before he’s engulfed by the tidal wave of splashes Bucky kicks his way. Spluttering, Sam paddles a quick retreat. 

“You bastard!” he laughs, attempting to retaliate. His splashes fall pitifully short. Bucky is pleasantly surprised when he laughs too, harder when Sam insists “That’s not fair, you have super strength.” 

“Sure, Wilson,” Bucky snickers “You tell yourself that’s why you can’t splash.” 

“I hate you.” Sam pouts “You’re awful.” 

“No you don’t.” Bucky snorts “If you really hated me you’d ally with the Avengers and persuade Steve to break up with me. I think you secretly like me.” 

“Wow, you’re a bit sure of that.” Sam says, returning to his original lounging position “Also, I don’t think even the Avengers could persuade Steve to break up with someone if he didn’t want to.” 

“Wrong!” Bucky counters gleefully “I did once.” 

“Really?” Sam leans forwards, looking like he’s about to hear the secret to turning lead to gold “How?” 

“Well,” Bucky begins, thinking he might just have made a proper friend “She was a real piece of work…”

**Author's Note:**

> More info: 
> 
> ECT: http://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/drugs-and-treatments/electroconvulsive-therapy-ect/#.WOahUojyvIU   
> CBT: https://www.simplypsychology.org/cognitive-therapy.html


End file.
